


I'm Fine

by Harpalyke



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Choking, Dirty Talk, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flashbacks, Forced Orgasm, Loss of Virginity, Overstimulation, Possession, Psychological Horror, Slytherin's Locket, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25403989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harpalyke/pseuds/Harpalyke
Summary: While cleaning out the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, Ginny finds a locket which she assumes belongs to the Black matriarch. She soon finds out it actually belongs to a certain Dark wizard. One who, by force, had gotten to know her intimately in the past.
Relationships: Tom Riddle/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 6
Kudos: 116
Collections: Multifandom Horror Exchange (2020)





	I'm Fine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Enisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enisy/gifts).



Just as she was about to dump it into the rubbish pile, she felt it: a faint thumping through her palm. Something inside the heavy, gold locket was alive, its heartbeat ticking independently of her own. 

That’s ridiculous, Ginny told herself. Throw it in the pile and get on with it already. The faster they finished, the faster Mum would leave them alone. But her hand would not uncurl, moving not toward the pile but to her hip. With a furtive glance around at the others, she slipped it into the pocket of her robes. 

Later on, during an Order meeting and Harry, Ron, and Hermione in Ron’s room, consoling Harry about his impending expulsion hearing at the Ministry of Magic, Ginny sat on the bed she’d been using for her stay at the House of Black and took out the locket. The gold was darkened from years without polishing, adorned with an emerald serpent across the front. They’d taken turns trying to pry it open, and Ginny wasn’t any more successful trying now. She held it up to her ear. There it was, the soft ticking. 

_ Crack! _ With a start, she dropped it, hearing the  _ thunk _ on the floor as her brothers, Fred and George, Apparated inches in front of her. 

“Time for supper, Mum says,” George informed her. 

“Would it kill you to keep out of my room?” Ginny snapped, groping for the locket. It must’ve fallen under the bed, but she didn’t want to bend double and have her brothers ask about it. She was close to her limit with their teasing lately. 

“Actually, this room belongs to…” Fred squinted at the faded nameplate on the door. “Walburga L. Black. Blimey, isn’t that Sirius’ mum?”

_ “Fred—George—Ginny!” _ Mum’s shrill call came from downstairs. When the twins left, Ginny hastily fell to her knees and swiped the locket from the dusty floor before following them out. 

She wore it under her blouse during supper, feeling the tiny heartbeat alongside her own. She wasn’t sure why she wanted to keep it hidden from the others—it almost felt like they might take it from her and tell her she was not to have it. But she was 14 years old now, allowed to keep something she found. Of course, she’d thought that at age 11 when she’d found an old diary among her schoolbooks, but that was a different matter entirely… 

Supper was a gloomy affair. Whatever had been brought up in the Order meeting had left the members surly and without much of an appetite. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were clearly stressed about Harry’s hearing. Only Fred and George were unbothered by anything in particular, but even they sensed the mood and spoke infrequently. The secret of the locket was oddly comforting: Ginny felt less alone than she had all summer. 

“Ginny, you’re awfully quiet, dear,” Mum remarked as they finished clearing the table. 

“I’m just tired, Mum,” Ginny assured her before turning toward the door to the hallway. This was accepted without the usual fuss; Mum really was occupied with the Order business. 

Now, however, standing in front of Walburga Black’s ornate Venetian mirror, Ginny felt far from tired. She wore plain burgundy robes, her long, red hair framing the locket, a spot of intrigue against a dull backdrop.  _ Plain, stupid, poor, worthless Weasley, _ taunted Draco Malfoy in her head, but she didn’t feel any of that at the moment. Her freckled, younger-than-14 face appeared glowing, more defined, her hair sleek and thick. Perhaps the locket enhanced the beauty of the wearer. 

Then she blinked and found herself looking not at sort-of-pretty, teenaged Ginny but the slight, timid 11-year-old, clutching to her chest a diary from 1943.  _ Never trust an object if you can’t see where it keeps its brain, _ Dad’s voice admonished in her head. But this locket wasn’t doing anything, was it? It seemed to have only a heart, not a brain. 

Nevertheless, Ginny took it off and set it on the vanity before climbing into bed. Though she passed the night in a deep sleep, jumbled, disturbing dreams played out in her mind in a long, nonsensical sequence. Many of them—all of them—featured Tom Riddle, which meant that many of them—most of them—were flashbacks to the Chamber. The familiar cold, wet stone seeping into her skin, the scent of mold and death in her nose, the heaviness of her limbs as she tried desperately to move them… 

Toward the end of the sequence, the tone shifted from cold terror to warm desire, flooding her with heat. Tom stood over her still, his handsome face alive with mirth, but Ginny wasn’t lying on the cold, stone floor, dying. She was in the first-year girls’ dormitory, the diary open and laid upon her chest, her hand sliding up her bare thigh on its own accord—no, on  _ Tom’s _ accord. 

_ It’s normal, dear girl, nothing to fuss over. Just give in to me, let me show you… _ Later, when he’d ensnared her and dropped all pretense, he used it against her:  _ Such a whore already at only 11 years old, letting an older boy touch you like that. _ What was rage at the time was now twisted lust in her dream, flooding her with heat. 

When Ginny awakened, she felt a wetness in her knickers and shame blooming in her lower belly. Her parents and Professor Dumbledore had pried all the details of Riddle’s possession out of her. But they hadn’t asked about her and Riddle’s relationship—for lack of a better term—prior to the possession, when he was patient, attention-showering Tom. 

“Ginny!” Mum called from downstairs. “Are you awake yet? We still need to finish the drawing room!” 

Ginny sighed and climbed out of bed, feeling like she hadn’t slept at all. After dressing, she slipped on the locket and joined the trio in the drawing room to carry bags of rubbish to the bins in the courtyard. This was made harder than expected when they found the bags had been ransacked by Kreacher, the old, miserable house-elf, looking for family heirlooms. Ginny wondered if the locket had belonged to Walburga, who Kreacher was most fond of. She was sure to keep it tucked inside her robes, enjoying the faint ticking against her bare chest. 

When Remus Lupin called Mum out of the drawing room, Ginny meandered over to the tapestry under the guise of collecting rusted objects strewn around a torn-open bag lying under the Black family tree. Most of the pureblood families were on there, including some of the Weasleys. Her grandparents had been burnt off, ending that line on the tapestry despite multiple living descendants. 

But Ginny was not looking for a Weasley. Her eyes were scanning the surnames high above her head for only one. _ Riddle. _ He’d said he was the true heir of Slytherin, but even Salazar Slytherin’s direct lineages were peppered with burn marks. 

“Ginny,” said Hermione impatiently from behind her, causing her to jump. “Do you think perhaps you could look at this later? If your mum comes back and sees we’re not finished…” 

Hermione did have a point, so Ginny nodded and turned away from the Riddle-less tapestry. Had Tom been lying about his lineage? It wouldn’t be the only lie he’d told her...but why would he lie about being a half-blood, of all things? 

The dull day continued with mindless cleaning, this time the parlor. Since nothing in there seemed keen on attacking them, they were able to work in peace. Mum didn’t rejoin them, and Harry et. al whispered to each other about the hearing and something in  _ The Daily Prophet, _ which had been spewing vitriol about him all summer. All the while, Ginny kept returning to Tom, kept replaying fragments of his entries to her and the dream from last night. His voice, either soft or contemptuous, filled her ears. _ It is I who knows you best, Ginny, remember that.  _

It helped pass the time during the day, but it persisted all through supper, and by then, Ginny was growing concerned.  _ Why _ was she thinking about him so much  _ now, _ after all this time? But when she was kicked out of the dining hall for yet another Order meeting, it made sense: Voldemort was back, and Tom Riddle was Voldemort, or on his way to becoming him. Not altogether reassured, she shut herself in Walburga’s room without bidding anyone goodnight and without taking off the locket. 

Once Ginny was lying in bed with the light off, she knew what she had to do to alleviate these intrusive thoughts. She had to give into her own urges. Sliding her nightdress up to her waist, she let out a deep, slow breath, snaked her hand between her legs, and let Tom fill her head. 

_ Such a naughty little witch, _ he sneered.  _ The Weasleys’ precious little girl touches herself to Lord Voldemort. _ Her breaths increased as she tensed up and rubbed her slick lower lips, desperate to find the spot Tom had helped her discover years ago. Sometimes, she was able to catch it, but tonight, her effort was futile. Just as she was about to try and slide a finger in between her wet folds, the velvet voice spoke not in her head but out loud:

“Need help, darling?” 

Ginny’s eyes flew open and she shot upright, clutching the cover up to her neck. There, in Number 12 Grimmauld Place just feet away from her, stood Tom Riddle, grinning mischievously at her. 

“You!” she burst out, scrambling backward. “How?” 

“Are you not pleased to see me, Ginny?” he asked. In the mirror behind him, she caught a glimpse of herself, her tousled, shiny hair, her glowing skin reddened with the desire rushing through her entire body. 

“Dreaming, I suppose,” she muttered to herself, not that she was complaining. If Tom Riddle’s memory insisted on plaguing her, he could at least seduce her. But this man in front of her was different from the one from the diary. He was still handsome, taunting Tom, but his robes were plain black, absent of his prefect badge and the Hogwarts insignia. His hair was longer, his face a bit more carved-out than at 16—he’d aged as Ginny had aged. Had he been with her all this time? 

He advanced on her, reaching for the locket. As she sat frozen, he ran his thumb over the ornate S before letting it fall back to her chest. Against her heart, she could feel the thumping from the gold increasing pace. That meant something, she knew, but her mind was not functioning enough at the moment to work it out. 

“Lie back,” he commanded softly, wrapping a hand loosely around her neck, forcing her flat, while the other hooked a finger around the hem of her dress and brought it up to her chin. 

“My, how you’re growing into a beautiful young woman,” he purred, running his palm over her exposed breasts, squeezing them and thumbing her stiff nipples. 

This is not good; stop this, Ginny’s mind admonished, but her body was in direct opposition, arching her back to get her closer to Tom’s touch. In the diary, he’d never touched her himself, only through her own hands. Now, with his cold, firm hands around her throat and traveling down her narrow torso, she marveled at how she’d gone without it. 

“Ah, ready for me, I see,” he teased when his fingers pressed against her soaked, throbbing labia. His dark eyes met hers; from here she could see he was in his early twenties, but at this point, she would’ve opened her legs wider for him if he was 45. His fingers and words filled her with unbearable heat, surging and scalding and demanding release. 

“Look at this little slut, yearning for me all these years. Do you like when I touch you like this, baby? Does my naughty little girl want her eager cunt filled?” He sank two of his fingers into her, burying them up to his palm in raw heat. Ginny’s mouth opened and a tiny, pleasure-laced cry escaped into the night air. 

“That’s it, baby…” He moved his fingers in and out, stroking her sensitive inner walls, while his thumb pressed the spot nestled in her folds she so desperately searched for earlier. This in addition to his words and tightened grip around her throat propelled Ginny to a vicious climax, stronger than any she’d given herself. 

“Oh, Tom,” she moaned, stiffening and contorting. Her hips gave one hard thrust and hot liquid sprayed her thighs. As she lay limp, gasping for breath, a hand cupped her breast, and something soft tickled the skin over her ribs. She opened her eyes and saw his dark-haired head lower over her moments before she felt the faintest touch of his lips against her belly. 

She signed and reached for him, wanting him closer, but her arms found nothing but air. He was gone. 

When Ginny awakened the next morning, she was sure the previous events had been a dream until she felt her nightdress still bunched under her chin. She sat up with a jolt, feeling the sting between her legs and the pool of her fluid between her thighs and soaked into the bedsheet. Last night had not been a dream—Tom had come to her. And now, against every bit of logic she still had, she hoped he would come again. 

He didn’t, not when he managed to sneak away twice and lock herself in the bedroom to lie down and call upon him. She knew he could hear her, feel her yearning, but he wasn’t indulging her because Tom Riddle didn’t indulge anyone but himself. Not when they weren’t giving him anything in return, like their life. The one thing Ginny wouldn’t give. 

When it became apparent he wasn’t coming anytime soon, she slipped away to the Blacks’ library to see if she could find something about him. The shelves held only dusty books in languages she couldn’t understand, but according to the tapestry, Orion and Walburga Black, Sirius’ parents, had been around Riddle’s age. Though they were both dead, they’d likely known him in their youths. Had he been in this library, running his hands over the spines like she was doing now? The thought was comforting.

Yet another solemn supper passed, the cause this time being Harry’s Ministry hearing tomorrow morning. Unsurprisingly, Harry was slightly green-faced and ate very little. He, along with Ron and Hermione, excused themselves to bed right after supper. Ginny did the same after helping clean up, her heart thumping as she hopped up the stairs. In her haste, she woke up Walburga Black, filling the house with howls until Fred and Sirius wrangled the drapes over her portrait shut. Needless to say, no one protested Ginny’s retiring to the bedroom for the night. 

Once she was locked in, she shed her robes and burrowed under the cover. Clutching the locket with one hand, she rested the other on her thigh and closed her eyes. 

_ Look at this little slut, offering herself up to me. _ Tom’s voice, though in her head and not out loud like she was hoping, flooded her with arousal. Her hand crept upward, feeling her juices collect in the crook of her thigh.  _ From shy, foolish little girl to filthy whore in a matter of only a few years.  _

Ginny was content with this, his voice spewing condescension in her head while she rubbed herself into delirium, but a moment later, his voice from beside her said, “Open your eyes, Ginny.” 

Tom stood off to her right in only pants and an unbuttoned shirt, reaching between her legs. Ginny’s breath stilled in her chest, her eyes wide. He was so handsome, so very like the handsome, evil boy in the Chamber, but so different. Until he caught her gawking and gave her his characteristic smirk. 

“Is this what you like, baby?” His fingers slid into her again, rather rougher than last time. She let out a hiss of pain but didn’t pull away. He pumped them into her with fervency, gloating, knowing he’d rendered her helpless. Just as she was about to resist, his hand clamped down on her throat, pinning her in place.

“No, Tom, it hurts.” The words came out pitiful and garbled, taking her back to the Chamber where she’d whimpered a similar plea. He’d been hurting her a different way then, but the situation was exactly the same. 

_ “No, Tom, it hurts,” _ he mocked, swinging a leg over hers and lying on top of her. “Go on, tell me you don’t want this. As you lie naked, calling for me, cunt spread and aching for my touch. Tell me you don’t want it.” 

Tears salty with fear and shame glazed over her eyes. How could she have been so dumb to let him in twice? “I don’t, Tom! Please!” 

Ginny hadn’t expected Tom Riddle to listen to her, but she also didn’t expect him to just  _ take _ her despite her crying and struggling, to pry her legs open and stuff his cock into her and thrust into her like he hated her. His eyes, so close to hers, showed not hate but pure glee, his leer baring his teeth. “Please,” she whimpered. “Please stop.”

“Not happening,” he breathed, leaning up and slapping her bare breasts, laughing at her yelps. “Not when I’m having so much fun. Go on and cry, baby, cry for Harry. He won’t save you this time.” 

Ginny would not cry for Harry, would rather die of shame than have him or anyone else see her like this and find out she’d succumbed to Tom Riddle _again_ —no. No screaming, no crying for help, no succumbing. 

She beat her fists against his solid chest, but he only laughed again, grabbing the locket and twisting it until it dug into her neck. “Now I’ve got you, you wily little bitch. You won’t evade me this time.” This, along with his cock pumping into her, obliterated her resolve and sent her hurtling toward climax. 

“No, no, no!” she choked out, writhing in desperation, trying to fight the intense pleasure radiating from her raw inner walls and swallowing her up, the hazy darkness closing in… 

All was silent except for ragged breathing. Ginny opened her eyes and found herself sprawled on the floor of the bedroom, naked, sore, and alone. The uneven breaths came from her own chest. The locket was lying in the corner by the vanity, abandoned but intact. Her body, on the other hand, not so intact: Blood streaked her thighs and swollen lower lips, and her neck was indented, also bleeding in some places, by where Riddle had dug the chain of the locket into her skin. 

With horror, she jumped to her feet and grasped the doorknob, flooded with relief when it didn’t budge. No one had been in here and seen her like this—no one except Tom, who she realized had come from the locket. It was not Walburga’s like she’d thought; it was  _ his. _ Enchanted with a memory of him, like the diary. 

_ How many times will you let Tom Riddle violate you, goddamn it?  _

She picked up a pile of her robes and threw it over the locket. Would it pull her back toward it?  _ Was _ he even from the locket and not from her own mind, inside her all along? Over and over these questions whirled in her head like a dizzying carousel as she sat on the bed, huddled in blankets, too wary to fall asleep. As the night ticked on, she waited for his voice, his shadowed figure, his enchantment of her, but it did not come. It was confined to the locket. 

Morning finally reared its head, and Ginny listened to the scuffling and soft murmurs outside the door. Dad and Harry were leaving for the Ministry, while Mum was calling Hermione, Sirius, and her brothers to breakfast. A knock came to Ginny’s door, but she ignored it, feigning sleep. 

Fifteen minutes later, she crept out of the room, baggy-eyed and dressed in a turtleneck out of place in July, past the kitchen, and into the courtyard. She opened one of the rubbish bins and let the locket fall out of the cloth in her hand. Into the bin it went, clanking against the other things on its way to the bottom. Then she went back inside Number 12, still shaken but starting to return to her normal self for the first time since she’d found the locket. 

And when Dad and Harry came back from the Ministry with good news—cleared of all charges—Ginny joined in on the celebration, for herself in addition to him. Tom Riddle’s memory had been defeated again, by her alone this time. She was no longer the helpless little girl in the Chamber. 

* * *

The weight in Ginny’s chest dissipated at once upon hearing Dad was alive and recovering in St. Mungo’s. There was still the matter of  _ why _ and  _ how _ he was attacked by a giant snake at the Ministry, of all places, but they could worry about that later.  _ Dad was going to live.  _

She practically skipped up the stairs of Number 12, on the hunt for Kreacher. Sirius had asked her to fetch him and suggested she check the boiler room. It took her a few minutes to find it, but once she did, she saw he’d been right: Kreacher seemed to live here, evidenced by an old quilt with an elf-shaped indentation under the boiler, surrounded by old pictures of Sirius’ insane relatives. 

Trouble was, Kreacher himself was absent. Ginny turned to close the door, ready to bound back into the kitchen and inform Sirius of that, when a flicker of gold caught the light in the corridor. 

Feeling her heart thumping in her throat, Ginny crouched low and carefully peeled the quilt back. There it was, the heavy, gold locket she’d tried to dispose of last summer with Tom Riddle’s memory inside. Letting out a gasp, she released the quilt and slammed the boiler room door closed. 

“It’s all right, he can’t get you here,” she whispered to herself as she hurried down to the ground floor. “He’s confined to the locket.” 

She was not wrong: Tom Riddle couldn’t possess her outside the locket. He did not come to her at all during her stay at Number 12 that Christmas. But every so often during that time, she felt a strange pull toward the boiler room. And she remembered his neat script in the diary:  _ It is I who knows you best, Ginny, remember that.  _ His taunts as he wrenched orgasm after orgasm out of her:  _ Look at this little slut, yearning for me all these years. _ And how often when she’d worn the locket, she felt his heartbeat against her chest in perfect synchrony with her own. 


End file.
